Faith
by OakwoodOuroboros
Summary: Faith is touchy. But to Sherwin, it took on a different meaning. To Sherwin, Faith means learning to control yourself. Faith is something that Sherwin was taught would give him peace. But will he find his salvation when he most needs it? Co-authored with a-thesis-film-destroyed-me.
1. Reins

**Before all things, it is important to mention that this fic was co-authored with a-thesis-film-destroyed-me: he came up with the original idea and is responsible for all the awesome in this story: I just wrote the filler. I hope you enjoy this new fic!**

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There were few times that Sherwin could say he felt truly safe: one of them happened to be when he was riding his horse, Shirley (his little brother usually debated with him over that one point and called the stout gray mare a pony; the older boy, needless to say, didn't agree), walking the sun-hardened paths through the immense wheat fields and occasional forests dotting the countryside.

In those times, nothing else mattered: there was a calming rhythm to the clopping of the animal's hooves against the ground, the waves of wind curving the golden fields. This was a time he allowed for himself to daydream, and of course indulge in his own guilty habits that he had to wait all day to evacuate: swinging his legs, fiddling with his hands, twisting and pulling his hair, spouting gibberish. At home, he had learned not to do such things. Shirley was the only member of his family and friends who didn't seem to mind this, and he was grateful for having been gifted with such a calm and loving animal.

Today, however, was different. Even before he pulled the bridle over her head, she was pawing at the ground impatiently. The redhead had checked her feet, her food, her stools and field, but nothing seemed amiss. She was just antsy, he had decided, and had hurriedly vaulted onto her bare back and set off without further ado.

Yet now, even though he had allowed her a short canter, an activity that usually calmed her down to a more manageable level, she tugged at her bit and tried to speed forward. Sherwin wasn't sure what to do, something that he was used to being easygoing now turned stressful, and could think of nothing better to do other than shorten his rein.

This was not a good idea. The mare stopped suddenly, trembling in a way that made the boy extremely apprehensive, then she bucked. Nothing big, nothing that would eject him, an experienced rider, but it unsettled him enough to make him loosen his hold for a fatal second, one that the dastardly horse chose to use by jerking her head forward, snapping the reins clean out of his hands, before setting off at a full-speed gallop down the beaten-earth path.

Sherwin squeaked, scared that the loose tack would be thrown over his dear horse's head and get tangled in her forelegs. He would not fall himself, and the dizzying speed wasn't really that bad, but his gut clenched with panic as he held onto her mane with one hand, the other trying desperately to get a hold on the loose, thin piece of leather that might mean both of their demises.

The redhead boy could tell that they were way off course. The road was no longer earth, but hard concrete. The sound of Shirley's hooves clacking against the surface was painful to hear, the noise grating against her rider's ears, but still the reins evaded him, like a snake teasing him to grab its tail. Inexplicably, she made a sharp turn off the main road, one which nearly sent Sherwin flying, but he held on tight and braced himself as they crashed through forest.

Branches flew at him, and no longer could he concentrate on catching the reins. Instead, he ducked, keeping as close as possible to his horse to avoid getting smacked in the face. Again, they emerged into daylight, and even before Sherwin could look around and take in their surroundings, Shirley screeched to a jarring halt that sent clumps of earth flying this way and that.

This time Sherwin could not stop himself: still holding the speed that Shirley had imposed upon him, he flew forward over the small gray horse's head and straight into the person standing right in front of them.

His landing was surprisingly soft: Sherwin had been thrown in such a way that he fell on his feet, at least, and the person stood there was strong enough to take his weight. However, he had landed face first in their chest, so for a second, the boy could only take in the heavy smell of leather, engine oil and cigarette smoke, before he took a quick and panicked step back, waving his hands in an apologetic gesture.

Now that he wasn't so close up to the person, he could make out some more details: a boy, probably his own age or older by a year or two, skin dark but eyes surprisingly clear, hypnotic even. A leather jacket, slicked back hair and tight jeans completed the picture, and indicated very clearly that this person was not from these parts. The crucifix hanging at his neck only reassured Sherwin minorly, but by all accounts this was definitely not the kind of person he would be authorized to spend time with under normal circumstances.

The boy in the leather jacket seemed to have frozen, without doubt shocked by the horse and rider's unannounced appearance, but was now regaining movement, one eyebrow shooting up to meet his hairline and making a gesture forward, reaching for Sherwin's arm. The redhead pulled away, hissing at the unwarranted attention, but when he glanced down at said arm, he caught sight of a long scratch tracing an angry line from wrist to elbow. Probably a tree branch, he thought dully, before shaking himself out of it when the boy with the suspicious clothing tried yet again to reach forward to examine the wound.

His intentions were good, Sherwin could tell, but he could not deal with this kind of thing right now. With a quick shake of his head, he turned down the offer, quickly vaulted back onto Shirley's back, and in the same swift movement kicked her sides and sped off, leaving the stranger with only a cloud of dust to converse with.

Something wasn't right, the redhead thought. He slowed to a walk when he got to the dreaded asphalt surface, the clacking sound duller than if Shirley were cantering, much to his great relief. He now recognized where he was, the house they had just been to had been abandoned for years, but it had obviously been sold now, despite its reputation as the local ghosts' haunting. Sherwin shivered, but the thought of wandering spirits in itself being blasphemy, he quickly pushed them to the back of his mind.

What was wrong, then? The appearance of this person? As unlikely as it was for someone to willingly live somewhere quite as far-removed as this place, it was by no means impossible. They were back on the field-path now, the muted thumps of the hooves helping his mind's gears to turn. Unconsciously, Sherwin also started to swing his legs back and forth, threading the loose end of the reins between his fingers. A city-slicker, then. A troublemaker, was the only thing that he managed to deduce from that. The smell of cigarette smoke was proof enough.

But that _still_ wasn't it. Sherwin was starting to get frustrated, attacking his hair with his right hand, leaving his dominant one to tear at the now apathetic horse's mane. It felt like a large piece of bread blocking his throat, not quite hurting him but making everything more uncomfortable and shortening his temper. What _was_ it that he couldn't quite grasp about this new kid?

Once they got back home and he dismounted, Sherwin checked Shirley's feet, letting his temper boil over and manifest itself in the tapping of his foot as he carefully inspected his horse's hooves, groomed her, watered her and led her back to her field. He them walked over to the front door, still just as enraged; however, just before he pulled down the handle to the always-unlocked home, he stopped, composing himself as he was faced by the heavy slab of wood. All the tearing, nervous movements were repressed, a sheet pulled over his true feelings, a mask positioned on his face. After a few extra deep breaths to compose himself completely, he finally headed into the house.

As soon as he stepped into the chilly entranceway, he closed the door behind him and pulled off his shoes, eyes immediately going to the old cross-stitch embroidery made by his sister when she was a little younger than him, spelling out in elegant curls: _In this house, in God we trust._

As he had taken to doing since her demise, the boy bowed his head and offered a quick, silent prayer to a person he could remember having loved deeply. A wave of sadness overcame him, but it didn't last long, and with a small sign of the cross he moved to the kitchen. The place was silent apart for the roaring of the stove, fire lit and filling the place with a warmth much unnecessary in these late spring days. His mother, as always, was stirring a pot of something, stare blank as she attempted to pierce the depths of the bean soup that would be their meal tonight. At the table, his father was looking through a large journal, newspaper clippings and other references scattered around him as well. Sherwin footsteps may have been light on the floorboards, but as anyone could attest, his father had the ears of a lynx.

"Son, that was mighty quick. You didn't cut back on your normal route I trust?"

The boy was quick to shake his head at this, denying before his father's perceptiveness could break through him and figure out the lie. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as his son was now staring at the floor, unable to keep eye contact.

"Alright. Is there anything to report, then? Any broken fences, crops that seem to have been tampered with?"

Sherwin shook his head again, denying everything and wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground. His hands were itching to flap, to twist something, his feet to tap, his legs to swing, his mouth to spout gibberish. He just wanted to be away from that piercing, accusatory stare.

"Alright, you can go and do your homework now. Be down in time for dinner," he said, turning back to his planning. Sherwin swallowed heavily, waiting for a second longer in case that was not the end of it, then scuttled off and up the rickety stairs as quickly as he could.

His brother was in the bedroom too, unsurprisingly. He was doing his homework, or at least pretending to; knowing him, he had sneaked a comic book between a couple pages of lined paper. Sherwin was too tired to be able to tell right now, the annoying uneasiness not having left him probably not inclined to allowing him to concentrate on his homework either. He tried anyway, pulling out the book they were assigned to read for their English class, but the words blurred in front of his eyes, thoughts interrupting him and getting in the way of understanding the book correctly. He sighed, set it aside and tried working on the maths instead, having marginally more success, but not enough to claim that he had finished his homework. Still, it was now time to head downstairs, the silence he usually observed with his younger sibling remaining forever present.

In the center of the table, there indeed was a large pot of white beans set, a loaf of plain bread sitting alongside it and looking just about as appetizing as the main course. Sherwin didn't say anything as he set the table, clockwork habits taking over long enough for him to complete his task. Soon, he was standing behind his chair as he was required to, his mother and brother doing the same, all of them waiting for the man of the house to lower himself into his own seat before following suit.

"For what we are about to receive..."

The words were lost on Sherwin, the formula too familiar and repeated so many times that it faded and fell into the same realm of background noises as the ticking of the clock on the wall, the constant creaking and settling of the old house, the crackle of the stove-fire. All had their eyes closed in that instant, he knew, so he allowed himself to break the contact of his clasped hands long enough to twist a curl of his hair between his fingers. It was but a small thing, but it was a great relief in the instant, and of course he was quick to put both his palms together as soon as they approached the end of the prayer.

The silence while they ate was heavy, no words nor eye contact being exchanged, only the clatter of spoons against the old ceramic bowls allowed to cut through the kitchen in such moments. They were quick to finish their meal, but they were yet again required to wait for their father to finish his own meal. There was another quick prayer, another thanks for the providing of their nourishment, before everyone left the table to retreat to their rooms.

Much to Sherwin's dismay, there had been no respite from the feeling of wrongness that had been torturing him since earlier on. The same inexplicable ball of _something_ was blocking his throat and stopped him from thinking about other, more important things. Just before going to bed, along with his usual prayer for the well being of his family, acquaintances and sister's soul, he added a small plea to resolve this nagging thought.

It may have been unorthodox and maybe a little selfish to pray for something so personal, but, he reasoned, it would distract him even more from his tasks than he already was, and that was something that his father most certainly would not appreciate. His father was one of His envoys, so in the end, everything should turn out ok, right?

He climbed into bed, making sure that his brother had finished his own prayer and was under the covers before shutting off the light. The night enveloped them, yet Sherwin didn't drop off as quickly as he thought he would, what with the day having been as tiring as it had been. This boy was of his own age, and unless he was home-schooled or went to the institution located in the next town over, he would undoubtedly bump into him in their tiny high-and-middle school which all the kids for miles around attended. He would come across him again, and maybe then he would manage to decipher the whys and hows this person seemed so inherently intriguing to him.

With that reassuring thought in mind, Sherwin rolled over onto his side and promptly fell asleep, unaware of just how much the next few days had in stock for him.


	2. Sunrise

School was something that required a lot of planning, and of course getting up earlier than the sun ever rose. By now, both he and Michael were used to it, but it didn't help with the fact that they still happened to both be grouchy before breakfast. As usual, their mom was up before them, stirring something that smelled a lot like oatmeal in the pot on the stove.

The mornings were never quite as tense as the evening and midday meals were, the absence of their father helping, so their meal was eaten only with a short, silent prayer rather than a long, drawn-out one like those they were accustomed to. Their mother had never admonished them for this, so they simply continued with the truncated version of their practice. All in all, Sherwin found the shorter, more personal prayer to be more sincere, although he would never reveal this to anyone willingly.

Once their dreary meal over, they picked up their bags and set off down the road, guiding themselves using the feeling of hard earth beneath their feet more than their eyesight, which wasn't of much use in the darkened morning anyway. They walked for what was maybe ten minutes before hitting the main road, the asphalted one that was easier to walk on but which pained Sherwin; for some reason, he hated the surface, hated the way footsteps echoed on the dark fake-rock. They didn't need to follow it too far, fortunately: his brother went to the village primary school, which was slightly off to the side of the road. Watching like a hawk, Sherwin let Michael walk up to his classroom door and enter, before he set off again on his longer journey to the nearest town, this time however taking the footpath which snaked its way alongside the main road.

Again, he would get to see the sunrise, something that Sherwin adored to watch, no matter how many times he had observed it before. It was always different, sometimes reflecting off the dithering night clouds, sometimes not, but regardless, it was always beautiful. This was Sherwin's second safe space, another moment in time where he allowed himself to play with his hair, swing his arms around and around, to vocalize freely. It was a time in which he was happy and safe and alone, three things that to him seemed to only ever coincide with each other. Today, the sunrise was pink and orange and the mackereled skies reflected these colored rays in sea-like waves, and to see this made Sherwin want to flap and clap his hands in joy. This sentiment, however, was not one fated to last.

The sound came from very far away, but Sherwin picked it up quickly, as there wasn't much noise apart from the one of some birds singing in a nearby hedgerow. It sounded like a hornet's buzz, low and ominous. Sherwin stopped walking, turned around and waited, curious and maybe a little frightened. There weren't usually vehicles on this road, never at this time of day anyhow.

Soon however, he was proved wrong as a light appeared, faint yet blinding in the distance. He was puzzled at first, as this was no car nor van: there was only one headlight. However, It was the noise that alarmed Sherwin more than the vehicle's visible defect, the sound overwhelmingly loud even over such a long distance. For a second, the redhead thought through the possibility of maybe hiding in the ditch, but was held back by his stupid, insatiable curiosity. Faster than he would have ever thought possible, the light became bigger and bigger, holding his attention as it would a moth's. The sound soon became overwhelming, so much so that he raised his hands to his ears and tried his best to shut off the noise, but still he didn't move. Subconsciously, he started making his own noise to cancel out the nefast one, screaming without noticing that he was doing so, yet still he didn't move.

In the end, Sherwin didn't even get to see what it was, it sped by so quickly. He whipped his head around in time to see the red taillight turning the corner, the mysterious vehicle disappearing as it took the bend in the road. Maybe he would come across it when he got to school, he thought dully, before lowering his hands from his ears. For a second, he didn't understand why they felt so numb, but then he raised them to his face in the half-light of the morning, their violent trembling saying much more of his actual mental state than his brain was revealing right now. He closed his eyes and took in a few deep breaths as he had taught himself to, trying to stabilize himself as much as he could before setting off again. His knees were still a little weak, but he made himself move forward, realizing as he took in the fresh air that his throat was raw and sore from his shouting.

By the time he got to the school, he had stopped trembling entirely and the sun was now slightly above the horizon: again, today he will be just in time for class, neither too early so that he was required to interact with his peers as little as possible, and not too late so as to attract unwanted attention from the whole class and warrant a reprimand from the teacher.

Today, however, it seemed that he was not going to be able to avoid the crush of students, as they seemed to be amassed around the gates. At first, he tried to make his way around them without getting involved in whatever had captured everyone's attention, but the jostling was not in his favor, and somehow he got projected to the very front of the crowd.

For a second, Sherwin flailed and nearly fell, the other students no longer there to support him, but then he was suddenly held back as someone caught him by the scruff of the neck, stopping him from overbalancing, but in such a way that he felt like a naughty puppy being held up by the scruff of the neck. He raised his eyes, angry and humiliated to have been treated in such a way, but then stopped and dropped his head immediately when he caught sight of the person holding him up.

Blue eyes, only a flicker of which were visible over the top of the heavy sunglasses that sat like twin beetles on his captor's face, looked down on him coolly. Sherwin was very quick to turn his gaze away, but not quickly enough to not note down a few details, as useless as they may be: the oily, slicked-back hair, the cigarette hanging limply from the hard line of his lips, the upturned collar of his jacket, the indecently open shirt collar. This was without doubt the person he had unwillingly bumped into the day before, although today he looked even less trustworthy than he had then.

Indeed, it only took a few seconds for the boy to throw him back, with more strength than his physique suggested, into the crowd. If it had been anyone else, the body of students would have kept strong and softened his fall, but Sherwin being who he was, the unspoken agreement that the crowd signed up to was to part instead, and to let the redhead boy tumble unhindered to the hard ground.

"Step back, everyone! STEP BACK, I SAY!" came a voice from the very back of the crowd. There was movement, a flash of blond hair, before a familiar well-dressed young man, brown eyes flashing with dutiful fury, plowed through the crowd to where Sherwin was still half-lying down in shock on the ground.

"Sherwin! Are you alright? Here, please take my hand," he proclaimed, offering a couple of gloved fingers to him. The redhead hesitated for a few seconds before accepting them, the grasp he received in return firm enough to crush his fingers and make him wince slightly.

The blond boy was quick to let go of his hand as soon as he was back on his feet though, looking around, all people who came under his gaze quailing under his earth-cold eyes.

"All of you should be ashamed of yourselves. Go to class, and remember that if I ever witness anything similar in the future, I will inform the authorities concerned with this and you will be punished according to your actions. And you-" he pointed his finger in the new boy's direction, "-attacking the pastor's son is one of the most unlawful things I've ever seen. I will inform the headmaster as well as Sherwin's father. We will allow no scoundrels here."

Sherwin could only watch as the blond and black-haired boy stared each other down, looking like a photograph and its negative. After a while, the new boy took the cigarette out of his mouth, crushing it beneath his heavy boots, pulled his sunglasses off his face and hooked them into the V of his open white shirt. Now, with face uncovered and eyes like ice, he looked as menacing and dangerous as a sleek black cat, contained power and grace translated into everyone of his movements. Glancing back to the blond boy, Sherwin just managed to catch the slight tremble in his composure, without doubt borne of the uncommon event of being contested, but he held strong, angelic features hardened on his quest for justice.

The dark-haired boy took a step forward, the movement, slight as it was, dislodging a few strands of hair and allowing them to sweep in front of his face. For some reason, this affected Sherwin in a weird way, his heart jumping into his throat and nearly choking him, the same weird feeling of wrongness that he had felt before and that had faded during the night now back and even more strong than before. Sherwin was scared, deadly afraid, and not necessarily only for the blond boy who was currently standing up to this obvious force of nature. This person, this city-slicker, was going to bring trouble to the town. He could sense that something big was going to happen, and he, above all, must not get caught up in it.

The dark-haired boy was only a few feet away now, what he had previously been leaning against now visible to Sherwin: a motorcycle, all red paintwork and sparkling chrome, was pushed up against the school fence. The one headlight now made sense to Sherwin, and so did the formation of the crowd around the new boy. In himself, if you discounted his aura, only his unusually dark complexion and style denoted from the usual school-goer here, and these in themselves were not necessarily enough to attract the attention of all students from all grades as it had. The motorcycle, a thing that many people had only ever seen on a screen and in picture form before, was a whole other matter. This was not what held Sherwin's eye though, because soon enough the boy was close enough for him to smell the smoke on his breath, and he quickly stepped back, realizing all at once that he was standing between the two conflicting parties.

The blond had not moved, instead taking on a smug expression that must have been enraging for anyone disagreeing with him. _I dare you, stranger. I dare you to lay a single finger on me_ , shouted his whole countenance. The other boy took a final step forward, one which brought him so close that their noses were nearly touching, and Sherwin, all of a sudden and with no preamble, was took over by an irrepressible wave of jealousy. He was shocked, to say the least, and in that sense it only lasted for a few seconds, but its very presence confounded him beyond belief.

Everything was tense, all the students, even the older ones, having remained silent in the crowd as they observed the scene, observing the two formidable powers playing out and fighting for the moment silently for dominance. The darker boy's fist clenched along with his jaw, and he seemed just about to take action when the bell rang, breaking the moment.

A lot of people jumped, including Sherwin, and none waited longer than necessary to start making their way towards class, trying to look as innocent and as uninvolved in the scene that had just taken place as possible. Soon, only the three of them were left standing in front of the school.

"Well, I've got English to get to. See you later, and remember, the likes of you are not appreciated here."

It might have been the words, but it was more likely the way he patronizingly patted his rival's shoulder on the way out that had the black-haired boy slap his hand away and growl in a dog-like fashion. The blond turned back and looked him up and down disdainfully with eyebrows raised, then without another word, turned back towards the school, bag nonchalantly swinging by his side.

Sherwin had remained frozen while the whole scene unfolded in front of him, but was shook out of his stupor when the ice-blue eyes snapped back to him, just as hard as they had been when staring down the blond boy. The redhead suppressed the shriek of surprise that he was ready to let go, exiting like a garbled, cat-like mewl instead, and he trotted off towards the gates as quickly as possible, eyes glued to the scuffed toes of his shoes. However, he couldn't help but let loose a scream when he felt a hand take hold of his wrist, tightening when he attempted to bolt. He wasn't panicking, not truly, but he was extremely wary and unhappy at being restricted so.

However, the other boy payed his struggling and alarmed shouts no mind, instead frowning when he peeled back the fabric of the redhead's sleeve. It's then that it struck Sherwin: the scratch. He had been concerned about the scratch on his arm the day before. He himself had been reminded of it when he had dressed that morning, but had shrugged it off. It was by far not the worse injury he had left untreated. The other boy, however, didn't seem to agree with this, and shook his head and tutted gently, pulling lightly on Sherwin's arm to make him raise it, then, in a moment that utterly bewildered the redhead, kissed the small injury.

This time, not only did his throat tighten and his mind go on high alert, but he felt his gut warm, his stomach feeling like he had just eaten a good Sunday dinner, but without the bloated feeling that usually accompanied that event. Probably unaware of the effect that he had on him, the dark-haired boy did the button up on his shirt sleeve again and patted the area gently, in a motion that spoke of _there there, all better now._

He then set off, leaving Sherwin still frozen to the spot, heart slowly descending from where it had become lodged in his throat. What had all that been about? This boy's behavior was bizarre, to say the least. One second he's condescending to him, the next he's worried for his well-being… No, he was wrong: everything he did was condescending. The small, sweet act that he had displayed seconds ago was akin to ones that a person would address a child, something Sherwin most certainly was _not_.

With a huff of exasperation, he pulled his bag higher on his shoulder, heading to his first class of the day, English. Maybe the calming subject would help him clear his mind, and help him forget about this set of strange encounters he had had to experience these last few days.


	3. Class

The place was teeming when Sherwin set foot there, the teacher not having entered the room yet. However, the level of disruption from the students being at its peak, he could only assume that she would not be there in too long a time. The redhead didn't look around, knowing that there would be more stares directed at him than usual. The altercation outside of the school gates had made him a subject of interest for the time being, unfortunately. With a sigh of relief, he sank into his seat next to the window, confident in the knowledge that, despite this temporary and unwanted popularity, no-one would wish to sit next to him. Being the pastor's son imposed a kind of respect on others that allowed him peace, the distance that people tended to take with him but a small perk to the otherwise stressful place that he called school.

He wouldn't have noticed the teacher's entry into the classroom were it not for the quiet that suddenly took over the class, followed promptly by the sound of chairs rasping against the linoleum flooring. Grating his teeth together at the sound, Sherwin stood up with the rest of the class and obligingly laid a hand over his heart, mouthing the stale words of the pledge before sitting back down in the same horrifying cacophony as before. All the while, his eyes remained on the scratched surface of his desk, hypnotized, as usual, by the swirls and stains around the inkwell from years of use, scratches in which ink had spilled looking like dark veins in the unpolished wood.

"Good morning, class. Before we start today, we are going to welcome a new student..."

As soon as he heard these words, Sherwin's head snapped up, looking up from where he had been tracing patterns and swirls on the desk in his mind. He would have groaned, were it not for the silence that had yet again befallen the class, even heavier than the one that had accompanied the teacher's entrance into the classroom. Of course, the troublemaker _had_ to be in the same grade as him. Judging by his appearance, there was a possibility that he was older than him, but that obviously wasn't the case.

Nevertheless, there he stood, minus the sunglasses and cigarette, but otherwise looking just the same as before. His eyes roamed over the class calmly, taking in every person in the room. When they stopped on Sherwin, however, the redhead boy couldn't help but flinch. He remained fixated on him for longer than the others, then moved on.

"Young man, maybe you could tell the class your name?" the teacher said irritably, arms crossed and with a frown starting to form on her face. The boy turned sharply to face her, eyes blank, before directing his attention to the chalkboard.

 _Jonathan Castrillo_ , he wrote in large sweeping letters, in a surprisingly elegant, yet legible script. Sherwin mouthed the name to better remember it, feeling a little more comfortable for now being able to label his.. was this fear? He honestly couldn't tell.

The silence didn't last any longer though, the students at the back of the class now having started an intense whispered conversation, the sound spreading and getting louder and louder like an approaching storm; the teacher turned her gaze sharply on the people assembled. They quietened, for a few seconds at least, but then an unannounced screech of a chair made Sherwin, and no doubt a few others, jump and turn to see who had decided to interrupt the relatively tense peace.

The blond boy from earlier stood up from his seat near the middle of the classroom, managing to look down on Jonathan even though he was standing higher and away from him, on the teacher's platform.

"I do not see why you should be allowed here. There is a colored people school the next town over, why should this… person be allowed here?"

Sherwin froze, hand shooting to his hair and clutching a lock between two fingers. He could feel the tension in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Something clenched at his gut, an uncertain feeling, a little anger and a little disgust which only intensified as his gaze lingered on the blond boy. He tried looking back to Jonathan and the tightness in his abdomen unwound a little. He had not backed down, and was standing tall and proud as a blazing fire, although no defiance tainted his eyes, simply a weary and slightly condescending look.

"Thomas, please sit back down and stop your nonsense," the teacher finally snapped. The blond cooperated with a certain reluctance, not stopping his glaring, but Jonathan was by this time no longer concerned, instead concentrating on what the teacher was telling him, nodding every few words in understanding.

"Young man, you must know that there's a dress code here. You will be excused today, but from tomorrow onwards you will be required to wear a white button down and plain pants and shoes. Now take your place. You can sit wherever you want, this class is free-seating."

At first, Sherwin thought that he did not risk anything: the classroom was large, a lot of the double desks were free towards the back, and even if he did need to sit up front, there were plenty of free seats there , next to some of the more interesting and high-standing kids in the community. Some were troublemakers placed there so that the teacher could keep an eye on them. He would fit right in, find some people to speak to, maybe even make some friends. Yet, despite this, he walked right past them and stopped when he got to the middle rows, before turning and making his way towards the left side of the room. At this point, Sherwin had dropped his head back to face his desktop, but was no longer detailing the intricate patterns there. Instead, he listened to the tap of boots on the floors, the shuffle of chairs, the rustle of fabric and leather. A bead of sweat traced down his back as the redhead distinctively heard these sounds getting closer and closer, to Sherwin's ears more and more deafening, until they stopped abruptly.

He looked to the side, only catching a glance of the leather jacket and white shirt before he quickly turned away again, cheeks heating up as the chair was lifted and put down gently next to him, and the one and only Jonathan Castrillo took place by his side.

"Well class, it's high time to start! Today we'll..."

The teacher's words were lost on him; Sherwin could only concentrate on his breathing right now, trying to make the fact that he was panicking as discreet as possible. After a while, he felt well enough to raise his head, but his eyes were inevitably drawn to Jonathan. He was tilting back on the back legs of his chair, legs crossed, and… was he reading a book?

As quick as a snake, twin blue flares snapped up from the written word they had been exploring and pinned down Sherwin. The boy hiccuped, the blush instantly back on his face and helping him to snap out of his contemplative trance and turn back to his desk.

He was scared, he could now see, and Jonathan knew this. The only reason he was now sitting down next to him was to mock him, to torment him. Why was he reading though? Was he trying to disrespect the teacher too, to hit two birds with one stone? Covering his face with his hand to disguise his interest, he glanced back in the other boy's direction, trying to catch a glimpse of the title of the book he was reading.

 _The Picture of Dorian G ay_ he read, realizing after a second that there should have been an _r_. The book was old and the cover worn, however, and the missing letter had simply been rubbed out by time and wear. The name rang a bell, but Sherwin couldn't say that he knew what it was about. He didn't read much anyway, let alone large, old-looking books like this one.

"Mister Castrillo, I understand that this is your first day and you're still getting used to new rules, but _here_ we require students to concentrate in class. Now put that book away, we're studying grammar, not literature, right now."

This earned a few snickers, and from the corner of his eye Sherwin watched as Jonathan sighed, stopped his rocking and putting all four feet of his chair back on the ground, and finally tucked his book in the small shelf under the desk. The teacher nodded in approval, then went back to scratching a series of conjugations down on the chalkboard.

Sherwin was not convinced, however, and still kept his eye on Jonathan once the teacher had gone back to her previous occupation. The boy seemed to be concentrated on the lesson, for a few minutes, at the very least, even jotting down random notes using a pencil on the loose paper he had been given. Gradually though, he slowed his pace to a word every few minutes, before finally putting down his writing ustensil. He looked to his right, then to his left (Sherwin dropped his eyes to the blank paper in front of him when he looked his way, taking to watching his actions out of the corner of his eye from then on), at the teacher, before prudently pulling out the object he had previously stashed under his desk; the book was opened with not much prudence as to whether she was watching anymore, the boy not even trying to put on appearances. Sherwin watched him for a while longer, transfixed as Jonathan started rocking on legs of his chair, face relaxed and small smile playing on his lips.

For some reason, Sherwin felt a smile of his own come upon him as well: not one that he considered to be particularly nice; it had been called ugly even, by more than one more person at that, but here he was, without a care in the world and a warm knot in his gut, smiling away at seeing one person visibly so engrossed and happy with an occupation. It was heart-warming to watch someone so relaxed in doing something so simple: it reminded him of himself, on his long evening walks, just admiring the countryside and…

"Mister Castrillo! You have been warned once, this is your last chance. Put that book away or I'll send you to the principal."

Snapped out of his enchanted state, his relaxed expression took on that same angry hardness that he had sported earlier on, when he had been confronting Thomas. It quickly disappeared though, the legs of the chair slammed back onto the floor, the sound too loud to Sherwin's ears, making him flinch for the umpteenth time.

Jonathan picked up his pencil, pulled his paper angrily back towards him, and wrote down the words written on the chalkboard without protesting any further. The teacher nodded approvingly, then went back to her lesson, not paying him any more mind. Sure enough though, as soon as her back was turned, he put his pencil down and quickly dipped into his bag, pulling out a fresh piece of paper. Sherwin watched in confusion at this change in activity; had he given up on trying to read that book of his? The class in itself was completely lost on him, the boy sat next to him having captured most, if not all, of his attention by now. Jonathan ripped part of the paper and scribbled on the smallest shred, then, as if he had known of Sherwin's eyes on him the whole time, turned to his desk-neighbor and slid the paper across the surface of the table, sporting a smirk-like smile on his face.

Sherwin looked up to see whether the teacher was looking their way before nervously grabbing the paper, fearing for some trickery to come of this, but obviously that was not the case, he realized, once he read the words written there:

" _I'm sorry for earlier on, I could tell that you were scared. I didn't want to hurt or embarrass you, I promise."_

This was intriguing, to say the least. The redhead hesitated for a second, before scrawling down his answer: _"I forgive you,"_ but really, there wasn't much of an alternative. Going mute on him would be impolite, and there was no way he wanted to get on this boy's bad side. He could never imagine holding up even for a few seconds in a face-off similar to the one he had had earlier on with the blond boy. It was by far better to stay safe.

Jonathan nodded his head when he read Sherwin's neat-ish bunch of letters, and in that moment, the redhead thought that it was over, that he was finally off the hook, but of course that was not to be the case. No, much to his dismay, the brunet wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue and wrote his reply quickly, sliding the paper over a second before the teacher turned to face the class. Sherwin hid the note as well as he could by shoving it under his own worksheet when she laid her eyes upon them, and let a small sigh loose when she passed them over without a comment and once more turned back to her lesson. With hands fumbling a little from the stress, Sherwin pulled out the paper and read it through, frowning a little as he read went through them a second time.

" _Do you want to come over to my house later on? I can make you a milkshake or something to make up for all this mess,"_ he read over twice, trying to catch the tone behind the two sentences. Was he genuine or… less so? He glanced to the side, only to see that the other boy was smiling at him. Was it reassuring? Was it mocking? He honestly couldn't tell. But then, the twist in his gut manifested again, the feeling warm and comforting, but scaring him by its unfamiliarity. He was inclined not to trust Jonathan, even if his intentions were sincere. Even though, when he asked the question to himself bluntly, he didn't really mind the idea in itself. Besides, he had chores to do.

" _No,"_ he wrote, not knowing how to decline otherwise. Jonathan's face fell a little when he read the word, and for a second, Sherwin thought that he was going to insist, or worse still, be angry at him for his answer, but it was not the case. He simply crumpled the paper and shoved it back into his pocket. For the rest of class, Sherwin kept an eye on him, as he was still intrigued by the boy, but he seemed to have lost heart in breaking the rules, something that was somewhat disappointing to him. It had been entertaining. So entertaining, in fact, that he was ultimately surprised by the bell ringing, announcing recess. As quickly as possible, he gathered his things and sped out of the class, unaware of the languid look that Jonathan threw at his retreating form before he followed in his footsteps.


End file.
